The facts we see depend on where we are placed, and the habits of our eyes. — Walter Lippmann

Recently, with a low sun on my face, I paused at a curb on W. Wisconsin Ave., unable in the glare to tell what was being displayed on the pedestrian light.

Was it a jaunty green man urging me to cross? Or a stern red hand warning me to stay.

It’s my eyes. My vision began to fade about a year ago, and continues to evaporate slowly, like a puddle on a moderately warm day.

I've been to doctors in Chicago and Milwaukee, but my condition remains unspecified. Most likely, they say, I will lose most of my useful vision. No one knows precisely how much or by when.

Already, I don’t always know where I am. And though I can see people standing near me, I might not know who they are or what they look like.

My eyes deceive me, and I go about in a state of attentive mistrust. At Miller Park this summer, during a Brewers game, I saw a pink rabbit, 7 feet tall, emerge from the concourse into the stands. No one else seemed to notice, so I stifled my urge to react. A wise move. As the creature approached, he morphed into a human vendor carrying a tower of cotton candy.

Stopped on that corner of Wisconsin Ave., I peered around. There were no people to take my cue from, at least none that I could see. No cars moved on the street. Tentatively, I began to cross.